Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper

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"Do you remember where she came from, and who was her mother?" asked
Robert, anxiously.

"My dear friend, you must be quiet. The fever has left you, but I will
not answer for the consequences if you get excited."

Robert lay quiet and thoughtful for awhile and, seeing he was wakeful,
Iola said, "Have you any friends to whom you would like to send a
letter?"

A pathetic expression flitted over his face, as he sadly replied, "I
haven't, to my knowledge, a single relation in the world. When I was
about ten years old my mother and sister were sold from me. It is more
than twenty years since I have heard from them. But that hymn which you
were singing reminded me so much of my mother! She used to sing it when
I was a child. Please sing it again."

Iola's voice rose soft and clear by his bedside, till he fell into a
quiet slumber. She remembered that her mother had spoken of her brother
before they had parted, and her interest and curiosity were awakened by
Robert's story. While he slept, she closely scrutinized Robert's
features, and detected a striking resemblance between him and her
mother.

"Oh, I _do_ wonder if he can be my mother's brother, from whom she has
been separated so many years!"

Anxious as she was to ascertain if there was any relationship between
Robert and her mother, she forebore to question him on the subject which
lay so near her heart. But one day, when he was so far recovered as to
be able to walk around, he met Iola on the hospital grounds, and said to
her:--

"Miss Iola, you remind me so much of my mother and sister that I cannot
help wondering if you are the daughter of my long-lost sister."

"Do you think," asked Iola, "if you saw the likeness of your sister you
would recognize her?"

"I am afraid not. But there is one thing I can remember about her: she
used to have a mole on her cheek, which mother used to tell her was her
beauty spot."

"Look at this," said Iola, handing him a locket which contained her
mother's picture.

Robert grasped the locket eagerly, scanned the features attentively,
then, handing it back, said: "I have only a faint remembrance of my
sister's features; but I never could recognize in that beautiful woman
the dear little sister with whom I used to play. Oh, the cruelty of
slavery! How it wrenched and tore us apart! Where is _your_ mother now?"

"Oh, I cannot tell," answered Iola. "I left her in Mississippi. My
father was a wealthy Creole planter, who fell in love with my mother.
She was his slave, but he educated her in the North, freed, and married
her. My father was very careful to have the fact of our negro blood
concealed from us. I had not the slightest suspicion of it. When he was
dead the secret was revealed. His white relations set aside my father's
will, had his marriage declared invalid, and my mother and her children
were remanded to slavery." Iola shuddered as she pronounced the horrid
word, and grew deadly pale; but, regaining her self-possession,
continued: "Now, that freedom has come, I intend to search for my mother
until I find her."

"I do not wonder," said Robert, "that we had this war. The nation had
sinned enough to suffer."

"Yes," said Iola, "if national sins bring down national judgments, then
the nation is only reaping what it sowed."

"What are your plans for the future, or have you any?" asked Robert.

"I intend offering myself as a teacher in one of the schools which are
being opened in different parts of the country," replied Iola. "As soon
as I am able I will begin my search for my dear mother. I will advertise
for her in the papers, hunt for her in the churches, and use all the
means in my power to get some tidings of her and my brother Harry. What
a cruel thing it was to separate us!"

CHAPTER XVII.

FLAMES IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

"Good morning," said Dr. Gresham, approaching Robert and Iola. "How are
you both? You have mended rapidly," turning to Robert, "but then it was
only a flesh wound. Your general health being good, and your blood in
excellent condition, it was not hard for you to rally."

"Where have you been, Doctor? I have a faint recollection of having seen
you on the morning I was brought in from the field, but not since."

"I have been on a furlough. I was running down through exhaustion and
overwork, and I was compelled to go home for a few weeks' rest. But now,
as they are about to close the hospital, I shall be permanently
relieved. I am glad that this cruel strife is over. It seemed as if I
had lived through ages during these last few years. In the early part of
the war I lost my arm by a stray shot, and my armless sleeve is one of
the mementos of battle I shall carry with me through life. Miss Leroy,"
he continued, turning respectfully to Iola, "would you permit me to ask
you, as I would have someone ask my sister under the same circumstances,
if you have matured any plans for the future, or if I can be of the
least service to you? If so, I would be pleased to render you any
service in my power."

"My purpose," replied Iola, "is to hunt for my mother, and to find her
if she is alive. I am willing to go anywhere and do anything to find
her. But I will need a standpoint from whence I can send out lines of
inquiry. It must take time, in the disordered state of affairs, even to
get a clue by which I may discover her whereabouts."

"How would you like to teach?" asked the Doctor. "Schools are being
opened all around us. Numbers of excellent and superior women are coming
from the North to engage as teachers of the freed people. Would you be
willing to take a school among these people? I think it will be uphill
work. I believe it will take generations to get over the duncery of
slavery. Some of these poor fellows who came into our camp did not know
their right hands from their left, nor their ages, nor even the days of
the month. It took me some time, in a number of cases, to understand
their language. It saddened my heart to see such ignorance. One day I
asked one a question, and he answered, "I no shum'."

"What did he mean?" asked Iola.

"That he did not see it," replied the doctor. "Of course, this does not
apply to all of them. Some of them are wide-awake and sharp as steel
traps. I think some of that class may be used in helping others."

"I should be very glad to have an opportunity to teach," said Iola. "I
used to be a great favorite among the colored children on my father's
plantation."

In a few days after this conversation the hospital was closed. The sick
and convalescent were removed, and Iola obtained a position as a
teacher. Very soon Iola realized that while she was heartily appreciated
by the freedmen, she was an object of suspicion and dislike to their
former owners. The North had conquered by the supremacy of the sword,
and the South had bowed to the inevitable. But here was a new army that
had come with an invasion of ideas, that had come to supplant ignorance
with knowledge, and it was natural that its members should be unwelcome
to those who had made it a crime to teach their slaves to read the name
of the ever blessed Christ. But Iola had found her work, and the freed
men their friend.

When Iola opened her school she took pains to get acquainted with the
parents of the children, and she gained their confidence and
co-operation. Her face was a passport to their hearts. Ignorant of
books, human faces were the scrolls from which they had been reading for
ages. They had been the sunshine and shadow of their lives.

Iola had found a school-room in the basement of a colored church, where
the doors were willingly opened to her. Her pupils came from miles
around, ready and anxious to get some "book larnin'." Some of the old
folks were eager to learn, and it was touching to see the eyes which had
grown dim under the shadows of slavery, donning spectacles and trying to
make out the words. As Iola had nearly all of her life been accustomed
to colored children she had no physical repulsions to overcome, no
prejudices to conquer in dealing with parents and children. In their
simple childish fashion they would bring her fruits and flowers, and
gladden her lonely heart with little tokens of affection.

One day a gentleman came to the school and wished to address the
children. Iola suspended the regular order of the school, and the
gentleman essayed to talk to them on the achievements of the white race,
such as building steamboats and carrying on business. Finally, he asked
how they did it?

"They've got money," chorused the children.

"But how did they get it?"

"They took it from us," chimed the youngsters. Iola smiled, and the
gentleman was nonplussed; but he could not deny that one of the powers
of knowledge is the power of the strong to oppress the weak.

The school was soon overcrowded with applicants, and Iola was forced to
refuse numbers, because their quarters were too cramped. The school was
beginning to lift up the home, for Iola was not satisfied to teach her
children only the rudiments of knowledge. She had tried to lay the
foundation of good character. But the elements of evil burst upon her
loved and cherished work. One night the heavens were lighted with lurid
flames, and Iola beheld the school, the pride and joy of her pupils and
their parents, a smouldering ruin. Iola gazed with sorrowful dismay on
what seemed the cruel work of an incendiary's torch. While she sat,
mournfully contemplating the work of destruction, her children formed a
procession, and, passing by the wreck of their school, sang:--

"Oh, do not be discouraged,
For Jesus is your friend."

As they sang, the tears sprang to Iola's eyes, and she said to herself,
"I am not despondent of the future of my people; there is too much
elasticity in their spirits, too much hope in their hearts, to be
crushed out by unreasoning malice."

CHAPTER XVIII.

SEARCHING FOR LOST ONES.

To bind anew the ties which slavery had broken and gather together the
remnants of his scattered family became the earnest purpose of Robert's
life. Iola, hopeful that in Robert she had found her mother's brother,
was glad to know she was not alone in _her_ search. Having sent out
lines of inquiry in different directions, she was led to hope, from some
of the replies she had received, that her mother was living somewhere in
Georgia.

Hearing that a Methodist conference was to convene in that State, and
being acquainted with the bishop of that district, she made arrangements
to accompany him thither. She hoped to gather some tidings of her mother
through the ministers gathered from different parts of that State.

From her brother she had heard nothing since her father's death. On his
way to the conference, the bishop had an engagement to dedicate a
church, near the city of C----, in North Carolina. Iola was quite
willing to stop there a few days, hoping to hear something of Robert
Johnson's mother. Soon after she had seated herself in the cars she was
approached by a gentleman, who reached out his hand to her, and greeted
her with great cordiality. Iola looked up, and recognized him
immediately as one of her last patients at the hospital. It was none
other than Robert Johnson.

"I am so glad to meet you," he said. "I am on my way to C---- in search
of my mother. I want to see the person who sold her last, and, if
possible, get some clew to the direction in which she went."

"And I," said Iola, "am in search of _my_ mother. I am convinced that
when we find those for whom we are searching they will prove to be very
nearly related. Mamma said, before we were parted, that her brother had
a red spot on his temple. If I could see that spot I should rest assured
that my mother is your sister."

"Then," said Robert, "I can give you that assurance," and smilingly he
lifted his hair from his temple, on which was a large, red spot.

"I am satisfied," exclaimed Iola, fixing her eyes, beaming with hope and
confidence, on Robert. "Oh, I am so glad that I can, without the least
hesitation, accept your services to join with me in the further search.
What are your plans?"

"To stop for awhile in C----," said Robert, "and gather all the
information possible from those who sold and bought my mother. I intend
to leave no stone un-turned in searching for her."

"Oh, I _do_ hope that you will succeed. I expect to stop over there a
few days, and I shall be so glad if, before I leave, I hear your search
has been crowned with success, or, a least, that you have been put on
the right track. Although I was born and raised in the midst of
slavery, I had not the least idea of its barbarous selfishness till I
was forced to pass through it. But we lived so much alone I had no
opportunity to study it, except on our own plantation. My father and
mother were very kind to their slaves. But it was slavery, all the same,
and I hate it, root and branch."

Just then the conductor called out the station.

"We stop here," said Robert. "I am going to see Mrs. Johnson, and hunt
up some of my old acquaintances. Where do you stop?"

"I don't know," replied Iola. "I expect that friends will be here to
meet us. Bishop B----, permit me to introduce you to Mr. Robert Johnson,
whom I have every reason to believe is my mother's brother. Like myself,
he is engaged in hunting up his lost relatives."

"And I," said Robert, "am very much pleased to know that we are not
without favorable clues."

"Bishop," said Iola, "Mr. Johnson wishes to know where I am to stop. He
is going on an exploring expedition, and wishes to let me know the
result."

"We stop at Mrs. Allston's, 313 New Street," said the bishop. "If I can
be of any use to you, I am at your service."

"Thank you," said Robert, lifting his hat, as he left them to pursue his
inquiries about his long-lost mother.

Quickly he trod the old familiar streets which led to his former home.
He found Mrs. Johnson, but she had aged very fast since the war. She was
no longer the lithe, active woman, with her proud manner and resolute
bearing. Her eye had lost its brightness, her step its elasticity, and
her whole appearance indicated that she was slowly sinking beneath a
weight of sorrow which was heavier far than her weight of years. When
she heard that Robert had called to see her she was going to receive him
in the hall, as she would have done any of her former slaves, but her
mind immediately changed when she saw him. He was not the light-hearted,
careless, mischief-loving Robby of former days, but a handsome man,
with heavy moustache, dark, earnest eyes, and proud military bearing. He
smiled, and reached out his hand to her. She hardly knew how to address
him. To her colored people were either boys and girls, or "aunties and
uncles." She had never in her life addressed a colored person as "Mr. or
Mrs." To do so now was to violate the social customs of the place. It
would be like learning a new language in her old age. Robert immediately
set her at ease by addressing her under the old familiar name of "Miss
Nancy." This immediately relieved her of all embarrassment. She invited
him into the sitting-room, and gave him a warm welcome.

"Well, Robby," she said, "I once thought that you would have been the
last one to leave me. You know I never ill-treated you, and I gave you
everything you needed. People said that I was spoiling you. I thought
you were as happy as the days were long. When I heard of other people's
servants leaving them I used to say to myself, 'I can trust my Bobby; he
will stick to me to the last.' But I fooled myself that time. Soon as
the Yankee soldiers got in sight you left me without saying a word. That
morning I came down into the kitchen and asked Linda, 'Where's Robert?
Why hasn't he set the table?' She said 'she hadn't seen you since the
night before.' I thought maybe you were sick, and I went to see, but you
were not in your room. I couldn't believe at first that you were gone.
Wasn't I always good to you?"

"Oh, Miss Nancy," replied Robert; "you were good, but freedom was
better."

"Yes," she said, musingly, "I suppose I would have done the same. But,
Robby, it did go hard with me at first. However, I soon found out that
my neighbors had been going through the same thing. But its all over
now. Let by-gones be by-gones. What are you doing now, and where are
you living?"

"I am living in the city of P----. I have opened a hardware store there.
But just now I am in search of my mother and sister."

"I hope that you may find them."

"How long," asked Robert, "do you think it has been since they left
here?"

"Let me see; it must have been nearly thirty years. You got my letter?"

"Yes, ma'am; thank you."

"There have been great changes since you left here," Mrs. Johnson said.
"Gundover died, and a number of colored men have banded together, bought
his plantation, and divided it among themselves. And I hear they have a
very nice settlement out there. I hope, since the Government has set
them free, that they will succeed."

After Robert's interview with Mrs. Johnson he thought he would visit the
settlement and hunt up his old friends. He easily found the place. It
was on a clearing in Gundover's woods, where Robert and Uncle Daniel had
held their last prayer-meeting. Now the gloomy silence of those woods
was broken by the hum of industry, the murmur of cheerful voices, and
the merry laughter of happy children. Where they had trodden with fear
and misgiving, freedmen walked with light and bounding hearts. The
school-house had taken the place of the slave-pen and auction-block.
"How is yer, ole boy?" asked one laborer of another.

"Everything is lobly," replied the other. The blue sky arching overhead
and the beauty of the scenery justified the expression.

Gundover had died soon after the surrender. Frank Anderson had grown
reckless and drank himself to death. His brother Tom had been killed in
battle. Their mother, who was Gundover's daughter, had died insane.
Their father had also passed away. The defeat of the Confederates, the
loss of his sons, and the emancipation of his slaves, were blows from
which he never recovered. As Robert passed leisurely along, delighted
with the evidences of thrift and industry which constantly met his eye,
he stopped to admire a garden filled with beautiful flowers, clambering
vines, and rustic adornments.

On the porch sat an elderly woman, darning stockings, the very
embodiment of content and good humor. Robert looked inquiringly at her.
On seeing him, she almost immediately exclaimed, "Shore as I'se born,
dat's Robert! Look yere, honey, whar did yer come from? I'll gib my head
fer a choppin' block ef dat ain't Miss Nancy's Bob. Ain't yer our Bobby?
Shore yer is."

"Of course I am," responded Robert. "It isn't anybody else. How did you
know me?"

"How did I know yer? By dem mischeebous eyes, ob course. I'd a knowed
yer if I had seed yer in Europe."

"In Europe, Aunt Linda? Where's that?"

"I don't know. I specs its some big city, somewhar. But yer looks jis'
splendid. Yer looks good 'nuff ter kiss."

"Oh, Aunt Linda, don't say that. You make me blush."

"Oh you go 'long wid yer. I specs yer's got a nice little wife up dar
whar yer comes from, dat kisses yer ebery day, an' Sunday, too."

"Is that the way your old man does you?"

"Oh, no, not a bit. He isn't one ob de kissin' kine. But sit down," she
said, handing Robert a chair. "Won't yer hab a glass ob milk? Boy, I'se
a libin' in clover. Neber 'spected ter see sich good times in all my
born days."

"Well, Aunt Linda," said Robert, seating himself near her, and drinking
the glass of milk which she had handed him, "how goes the battle? How
have you been getting on since freedom?"

"Oh, fust rate, fust rate! Wen freedom com'd I jist lit out ob Miss
Johnson's kitchen soon as I could. I wanted ter re'lize I war free, an'
I couldn't, tell I got out er de sight and soun' ob ole Miss. When de
war war ober an' de sogers war still stopping' yere, I made pies an'
cakes, sole em to de sogers, an' jist made money han' ober fist. An' I
kep' on a workin' an' a savin' till my ole man got back from de war wid
his wages and his bounty money. I felt right set up an' mighty big wen
we counted all dat money. We had neber seen so much money in our lives
befo', let alone hab it fer ourselbs. An' I sez, 'John, you take dis
money an' git a nice place wid it.' An' he sez, 'Dere's no use tryin',
kase dey don't want ter sell us any lan'.' Ole Gundover said, 'fore he
died, dat he would let de lan' grow up in trees 'fore he'd sell it to
us. An' dere war Mr. Brayton; he buyed some lan' and sole it to some
cullud folks, an' his ole frien's got so mad wid him dat dey wouldn't
speak ter him, an' he war borned down yere. I tole ole Miss Anderson's
daughter dat we wanted ter git some homes ob our ownselbs. She sez, 'Den
you won't want ter work for us?' Jis' de same as ef we could eat an'
drink our houses. I tell yer, Robby, dese white folks don't know
eberything."

"That's a fact, Aunt Linda."

"Den I sez ter John, 'wen one door shuts anoder opens.' An' shore
'nough, ole Gundover died, an' his place war all in debt, an' had to be
sole. Some Jews bought it, but dey didn't want to farm it, so dey gib us
a chance to buy it. Dem Jews hez been right helpful to cullud people wen
dey hab lan' to sell. I reckon dey don't keer who buys it so long as dey
gits de money. Well, John didn't gib in at fust; didn't want to let on
his wife knowed more dan he did, an' dat he war ruled ober by a woman.
Yer know he is an' ole Firginian, an' some ob dem ole Firginians do so
lub to rule a woman. But I kep' naggin at him, till I specs he got tired
of my tongue, an' he went and buyed dis piece ob lan'. Dis house war on
it, an' war all gwine to wrack. It used to belong to John's ole marster.
His wife died right in dis house, an' arter dat her husband went right
to de dorgs; an' now he's in de pore-house. My! but ain't dem tables
turned. When we knowed it war our own, warn't my ole man proud! I seed
it in him, but he wouldn't let on. Ain't you men powerful 'ceitful?"

"Oh, Aunt Linda, don't put me in with the rest!"

"I don't know 'bout dat. Put you all in de bag for 'ceitfulness, an' I
don't know which would git out fust."

"Well, Aunt Linda, I suppose by this time you know how to read and
write?"

"No, chile, sence freedom's com'd I'se bin scratchin' too hard to get a
libin' to put my head down to de book."

"But, Aunt Linda, it would be such company when your husband is away, to
take a book. Do you never get lonesome?"

"Chile, I ain't got no time ter get lonesome. Ef you had eber so many
chickens to feed, an' pigs squealin' fer somethin' ter eat, an' yore
ducks an' geese squakin' 'roun' yer, yer wouldn't hab time ter git
lonesome."

"But, Aunt Linda, you might be sick for months, and think what a comfort
it would be if you could read your Bible."

"Oh, I could hab prayin' and singin'. Dese people is mighty good 'bout
prayin' by de sick. Why, Robby, I think it would gib me de hysterics ef
I war to try to git book larnin' froo my pore ole head. How long is yer
gwine to stay? An' whar is yer stoppin?"

"I got here to-day," said Robert, "but I expect to stay several days."

"Well, I wants yer to meet my ole man, an' talk 'bout ole times.
Couldn't yer come an' stop wid me, or isn't my house sniptious 'nuff?"

"Yes, thank you; but there is a young lady in town whom I think is my
niece, my sister's daughter, and I want to be with her all I can."

"Your niece! Whar did you git any niece from?"

"Don't you remember," asked Robert, "that my mother had a little
daughter, when Mrs. Johnson sold her? Well, I believe this young lady is
that daughter's child."

"Laws a marcy!" exclaimed Aunt Linda, "yer don't tell me so! Whar did
yer ketch up wid her?"

"I met her first," said Robert, "at the hospital here, when our poor Tom
was dying; and when I was wounded at Five Forks she attended me in the
field hospital there. She was just as good as gold."

"Well, did I eber! You jis' fotch dat chile to see me, ef she ain't too
fine. I'se pore, but I'se clean, an' I ain't forgot how ter git up good
dinners. Now, I wants ter hab a good talk 'bout our feller-sarvants."

"Yes, and I," said Robert, "want to hear all about Uncle Daniel, and
Jennie, and Uncle Ben Tunnel."

"Well, I'se got lots an' gobs ter tell yer. I'se kep' track ob dem all.
Aunt Katie died an' went ter hebben in a blaze ob glory. Uncle Dan'el
stayed on de place till Marse Robert com'd back. When de war war ober he
war smashed all ter pieces. I did pity him from de bottom ob my heart.
When he went ter de war he looked so brave an' han'some; an' wen he
com'd back he looked orful. 'Fore he went he gib Uncle Dan'el a bag full
ob money ter take kere ob. 'An wen he com'd back Uncle Dan'el gibed him
ebery cent ob it. It warn't ebery white pusson he could hab trusted wid
it. 'Cause yer know, Bobby, money's a mighty temptin' thing. Dey tells
me dat Marster Robert los' a heap ob property by de war; but Marse
Robert war always mighty good ter Uncle Dan'el and Aunt Katie. He war
wid her wen she war dyin' an' she got holt his han' an' made him promise
dat he would meet her in glory. I neber seed anybody so happy in my
life. She singed an' prayed ter de last. I tell you dis ole time
religion is good 'nuff fer me. Mr. Robert didn't stay yere long arter
her, but I beliebs he went all right. But 'fore he went he looked out
fer Uncle Dan'el. Did you see dat nice little cabin down dere wid de
green shutters an' nice little garden in front? Well, 'fore Marse Robert
died he gib Uncle Dan'el dat place, an' Miss Mary and de chillen looks
arter him yet; an' he libs jis' as snug as a bug in a rug. I'se gwine
ter axe him ter take supper wid you. He'll be powerful glad ter see
you."

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